 |
When we were in high school, my friends and I gathered in the living room of Mary’s parents to watch each new episode and every rerun of the original Star Trek. Built into the scripts were the hopes of a politically progressive future, where war, racism, and poverty had been eliminated on Earth and the extended United Federation of Planets. All our brewing dreams of the 1960s were finally realized in the 23rd century and human endeavor could focus on science and exploration.
I had cut my teeth on H.G. Wells and Jules Verne before I was a teenager. In my teens, I delved into the works of Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury, settling into the books of Robert Silverberg. Because friends enthusiastically acclaimed the works of Robert A. Heinlein and Frank Herbert, I read them too. The more I dwell in memory, the more authors I can recall. And then there were comic books, from Superman to The Fantastic Four.
It has grown more difficult for me to enjoy science fiction as I have aged. The seeds of resistance began forming in Mary’s living room. The suspension of disbelief has grown more difficult since then.
To this day, I am unconvinced that we know what consciousness is. The definitions I have read or heard are inadequate and I suspect our language lacks the vocabulary to describe it. We can say it emerges from physical manifestations, which we can prove by diverting it with drugs, or corrupting it with illness and injury, or killing it temporarily with anesthesia. It is proven to depend on physical properties to exist. Whatever it is, I was convinced it was destroyed whenever the characters of Star Trek stepped into the transporter. That which was recomposed at the destination is an exact copy, but it was not you. You ceased to exist at the point your molecules were dispersed into wavelengths. Once the recreation was set in motion at the destination, the duplicate didn’t know it wasn’t you because it had access to all your reconstructed memories. Thinking and acting as you, your death was forever undetected.
It was not the only issue to arise for me. I could not accept the presence of gravity on the starship USS Enterprise. How much energy went into packing the decks with enough gravitational force to allow the crew to stroll about the corridors in a natural manner? Gravity is a very weak force. Lift a book off the table beside you. How hard was it for you to counter the pull of the entire planet? How much energy must be involved aboard the Enterprise to prevent things from floating? And why, during battles with the Klingons and Romulans, did no one think to divert the energy being used to maintain the force of gravity into the constantly failing shields?
Why was it that Captain Kirk’s genitalia could fit into so many galactic species? How was it Science Officer Spock had a Vulcan father and Human mother? Did the Vulcans evolve gonads that produced super-adaptive gametes? This science is a throwback to Greek mythology, to Minotaurs and Centaurs.
When Iron Man’s suit protects him from crashes, why is Tony Stark not jellied inside his shell? When the Hulk expands in density and strength, from where comes the fuel used by his metabolism for metamorphosis into a larger being? Why are humans fodder for every alien digestive tract? Regardless of where in the galaxy or in which dimension the alien has evolved, they are able to extract nutrients from human flesh.
Magic has to be an ingredient in any Avenger’s super powers. I would rather a story just admit to being magic and not advanced science, relying on Arthur C. Clarke's catchall solution: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." In the Marvel Universe, Thor and Doctor Strange I can justify. To believe that Superman and Lois in the DC World can get it on and produce offspring suggests the writers have an insufficient knowledge of biology, of evolution and speciation. I prefer the Marvel Universe, if only for the clever dialogue, the banter. I can make allowances for comedy, even as my interest in science fiction is dwindling.
Most of what is supposed to be science fiction is more correctly science fantasy. I have developed a preference for science nonfiction.
I am reading less science fiction, primarily because it is too much science fantasy. As Spock would say, "Highly illogical." Perhaps I am not reading it at all. It is only with hindsight that I will notice that I have abandoned it altogether, like cigars. I never quit smoking them, yet haven’t had one in half a dozen years. However, age has not diminished my attraction to fantasy. The last three books I bought were Diana Wynne Jones’s Howl's Moving Castle and its two sequels, Castle in the Air, and House of Many Ways. Abracadabra, everyone.
Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about
the events and concerns of his life. If you've any
comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you.
You can find his
several books at www.Bentzman.com.
Enshrined
Inside Me, his second collection of
essays, is now available to purchase.
